Diary of a Fairy
by EstrangeloEdessa
Summary: ABANDONED.
1. 14 July

14 July

I cannot stand him. I simply. Cannot. Stand him! Once again, _once again_, he has done his best to make my life miserable. And _once again_, he has succeeded. Can a girl possibly have a worse older brother? Hah! I think _not_! I've heard the village girls moan and whine about their families, but I have no patience for their complaints. None of them have a brother like Howard.

And now, I suppose, you expect me to describe just what he did? Very well. He pulled my hair. but no, that's not mean enough for him! He pulled it _just_ as I was pouring the tea for mother. You know what that means? _Scalding hot water_, _all down my front!_ Do you have _any_ idea how _painful_ that is? Allow me to answer for you. No. You don't. You—

* * *

Later

I panicked and blew out the candle because Mother stirred. Fortunately, she did not awaken. I say "fortunately" because I am writing this near midnight by the light of one of our few candles. I am not supposed to be doing this. It goes against Mother's strict rules—but then, I do not care for Mother's rules right very much at this time. She took Howard's side—_again_—after the "incident" today. That's what she calls it. An "incident." Never—


	2. 15 July

15 July

I had to blow out the candle and tuck away this paper again last night when Mother woke up. I was terrified for a moment that she had caught me. After all, it was probably the light of my candle that interrupted her sleep. But perhaps not, for I know she always has suffered from insomnia.

Now there is no chance of her catching me. I'm sitting at the table, in plain sight, but she thinks I am copying out scrolls for Attera. Actually, I probably _should_ be doing that. But Howard is eyeing me from across the room, and I just _know_ that he is planning something horribly cruel concerning my work. I wouldn't be surprised if he grabbed the "scrolls" and tossed them in the well outside. It would be just like him. (I am, in fact, still bitter about yesterday's hot water "incident.") Anyways, better that he should grab these meaningless scribblings than the scrolls I so carefully copy over and over for Attera.

My goodness, it's a good thing that both he and Mother are illiterate. Mother has no patience for anything other than work. Neither do I, to be honest, which is why I will get back to the scrolls in just a moment. But I need to vent my feelings. Attera would listen, but she isn't here right now—I only go to her in the afternoons, and the sun has barely risen now.

When I go to her later today, I will ask her to keep this paper safe. Howard will be suspicious if he finds it lying around, and he will not waste the opportunity to be the worthless little tattletale he is. He will go straight to Mother and tell her some wildly concocted tale of my "wrongdoings," and she will believe him. As usual.

* * *

**A/N: The dates I'm using for this "diary" are the dates I'm publishing this on. The only reason for this is that it makes it easier for me to keep track of the time passing in the story, as well as when to update. **


	3. 18 July

18 July

So. Attela has ordered me to continue this—in her words—"diary." Hoorah. Why on Earth did I even start writing it? Oh, right. Howard.

I brought that first paper, the one with my last two "entries," to Attela to keep them out of Howard's reach. And, of course, she read it. I shall be honest: sometimes my frail old teacher irritates me just as much as my brother does. However, here at least my thoughts are safe from anyone who might disapprove of them. Attela, in fact, thinks it wonderful that I chose to write and, as I have already said, has instructed me to continue.

She thinks it is good for me to "express myself" like this. And I must agree, it _can _be rather soothing. Still, it is a bother. But I must heed Attela, for if I don't, my lessons with her will be canceled.

Attela teaches me magic, among other things. In truth, the actual magic lessons are rare and come about so silently that I don't even realize what they are until they've happened. Reading over that, I know it makes little sense. I shall elaborate later. Most of my lessons are in what she calls "the values of respect, effort, and love."

Respect? Yes. I do respect her. She's old, frail, and quite demanding; yet she is powerful, clever, and kind. She certainly makes my life more interesting than those of the village girls, and for that I am extremely grateful.

Effort? Hah! What a wonderful understatement! Backbreaking, spine-crushing work would be a far more adequate term to use! She is old; she can do next to nothing. I do the household chores for her. Firewood I carry, dishes I wash, rows upon rows of shelves I dust. It's the reason we don't pay in money for my lessons. The cooking and washing I do is her reward.

And as for love, I haven't the faintest idea where she pulled that word from. Attela is so old and wrinkled, it is difficult to imagine her loving anybody, and yet, she tells me she once did. As for myself, I am only twelve. I consider myself far too young to be paying attention to boys, though I know for a fact the village girls my age flirt like mad. Especially May—oh, she's the worst! Besides, I have yet to meet a boy worth loving. Of course, almost my entire experience with the male gender has been limited to my daily arguments with Howard.

I must write for half an hour straight, and there is still quite some time left. Attela bustles about, stooped over, rearranging all the vials and jars that she does not yet trust me with. This cottage is but a small, one-room shack with a counter going all the way around three walls. A bed, piled high with raggedy blankets, is pushed up against the forth. It stands under a small window, next to the door. The table at which I write occupies most of the center of the room. It has only one chair. There is also a short stool, usually my resting spot, which is pushed around the room as needed. Right now it is in front of the washbasin, on the other side of the table. Directly behind me is "my side" of the cottage, the area that holds the books, scrolls, and vials I am charged with.

Ah, finally the time is up! Goodbye, O So Very Dear Diary, goodbye!


	4. 20 July

20 July

I was excused from journal writing—I refuse to call this a diary—yesterday as it was Attela's washing day. In other words, it was the day _I_ trudged down to the lake and did Attela's massive load of laundry.

Attela came with me, of course. Oh no, never let it be said that she _forces_ me to do anything! I do this all from the pure sweet goodness of my heart! And, of course, because it pays for my lessons.

I asked her yesterday why she did not simply use magic to clean. She is, after all, a witch. She replied by saying that magic must be saved up. I know what she means by this. She means that the less one uses magic, the more powerful the magic will be when one _does _use it. So if she magiciked all her clothes clean, she would not have enough magic left within her if she were suddenly called upon to save a life.

I understand all this, but it is still a terrible hassle.

I had to stand in knee-deep water, skirts pulled and tucked away to stay dry. I hate standing with my legs bare; it makes me feel so very exposed. Parts of my skirt still got damp, and later, they chafed against my skin. The rocks on the lake bottom there are extremely sharp, and I came away with several cuts and bruises. The basket stood perched on a large boulder beside me. It was my job to take out one item—a shirt, skirt, or blanket, maybe—and dunk it in the water. If there was a stain, I had to scrub it with sand until it came out. (And there are quite a number of stains on Attela's laundry, allow me to tell you!) While scrubbing, the cloth had to be kept damp, so I needed to stay bent over as I dipped it in again, rubbed it against the rocks, dipped again, and squeezed the water out. The clean laundry went in another basket, floating on the lake.

Attela sat on the shore and watched me.

When the laundry was clean, I straightened up, and oh! How my back _hurt_ from that! Then I rushed to the trees bordering the lake and slapped the wet laundry across the low, strong branches to dry.

And then, at last, I could rest.

In fact, I partly enjoy the laundry days. As the laundry airs in the trees, I am permitted to float about in the lake at my leisure. I adore swimming, more than anything else. It allows me to forget about everything: the stresses of my mother and brother, the grueling "magic lessons," the torments of the village girls. All thoughts of those things simply vanish as I reach out in stroke after stroke after stroke after stroke... Soon, I am floating, small as a leaf, on the still, smooth surface.

Sometimes Attela wades with me. She claims it makes her feel young, but she never swims. Her old bones could never handle that, I'm afraid. So she stands in the shallows or reclines on the shore, black eyes twinkling.

Unfortunately, that never lasts long, as the laundry always dries far too fast and I must pack it away, stack the baskets, and trudge home. My back is_ unbelievably_ sore from yesterday's work. Attela lets me do relaxing things (she says) on after-laundry days. But is this journal-writing "relaxing?" I should think not!

No, I have not yet forgiven her for subjecting me to this daily half-hour of torture.


End file.
